Battlefield
by Hello-Sweetie1311
Summary: John just wanted quiet, and sherlock wont shut up, and he snaps, with surprising results. smut, for the lovely Olivia. made at 1am exam time, so yeah don't judge.
1. Chapter 1

The first time, John just wanted him to shut up for a second, just to let him think, just one moment of silence, just to stop but that mouth wouldn't stop spitting facts and casual disgust in the way he did.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who sees everything, judges everyone, and the man that never shuts up, not ever.

"ridiculous, there are about 98 ways alone she couldn't have done it, god are people this stupid, I mean its obvious from her left heel, my god Lestrade's hit a new level of stupi-

And he just… snapped. Coarse hands had grabbed black hair and purple cloth and before he knew it, he had the genius slammed against the wall with a violent slam.

"i…urgh" whatever was coming out of that mouth next died, and finally, finally john had silence.

Except, it wasn't silent. Sherlock was… panting. His blue eyes looked glazed and his chest was heaving obviously under the tight purple shirt.

John couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him, what he knew. The army taught him to trust his own senses, but this was beyond comprehension.

"Sherlock, did I hurt you?" That had to be the reason, although more than most the Doctor knew the universal look of a human being in pain, and he knew that was the furthest thing from what he was seeing.

"Don't be ridiculous, john. Now, let me go. "The threat wasn't unnoticed, Sherlock might be thin but John didn't underestimate that he could be dangerous.

The tension was a physical presence in the room, as blue eyes burned down onto grey ones and neither man moved. Then, as he always did, Sherlock ruined it.

The taller man tried to throw off john, but the doctors stocky build proved that a moot action.

"no, no you don't."

John's hands found Sherlock's hair, and he pulled. Just hard enough to elicit a moan.

That sound, so natural, so human, from the great Sherlock Holmes. That would be enough to break any man, and John Watson was not blessed with superhuman self-control.

The kiss wasn't romantic or slow, it wasn't soft and sweet. It was like a war zone, two opposite forces colliding in a moment when only the baser urges of men were clear. Pain and sex, the two most fundamental motivators. Watson missed the battlefield, it was true, missed the rush of it, the adrenalin.

However the rush of taking control of Sherlock after so long, after so long without feeling alive, was so much better. He pulled the genius by the hair and attacked his mouth, hard, punishing.

Sherlock for his part was far from idle, and for a suspected virgin he was a quick learner. He fought back just as hard, clashing lounges, pressing hips, hands grabbing hard enough to leave bruises, bites, battle scars.

And then Watson moved his mouth and started biting a trail down the pale neck, and the IQ of the world's only consulting detective plummeted to about 60.

"ah-god, john!" he was incapable of forming sentences, let alone thoughts, it was all he could to keep his knees from buckling.

*RIP*

The tight purple silk was tore from his pale chest with little effort and Sherlock gasped as johns nails scraped down the newly exposed territory.

"Sherlock, bedroom, now, please…" it wasn't a request, and they staggered out of the living room, barely making it inside.

In the diogenes club Mycroft Holmes looked highly awkward as he examined the footage of the camera he had installed in 221B, and made a mental note to get one of his people to remove the camera as soon as possible and afford the boys some privacy.


	2. Chapter 2

_The bastard was doing it, on purpose. Had to be. How can john not see he's being flirted with? No one could be that oblivious, even him, and he's so far in the closet he's on Aslan's speed dial. _

The reference startled the dark-haired man; he remembered Mycroft reading him the Narnia tales when he was younger but hadn't recalled it in some time. Still, he smirked at his own wit before the seething jealously churned up its irrational whispers once more.

It wasn't that the young police officer wasn't friendly to everyone, oh no, he was quite the charmer, Mrs Hudson would say.

But it was different when he spoke to john, he was overly flirty, all wide eyes and teeth and irritatingly tight shirts_. Honestly what did he look like?_ Sherlock Holmes was not a man who recognised irony.

The young officer Kent was hanging on every word of johns, who was naturally reveling in the admiration of being "one of those army doctors! God, so brave!" When he wasn't nodding like an idiot devoid of any higher brain function, he was practically undressing john with his eyes and licking his lips like he was eyeing up his dinner.

_He isn't getting near john. Not in a million years. John is mine. _

It would seem the doctor needed a follow-up appointment to properly get the message across.

With a spark in his eye and a forceful step, Sherlock literally stepped in between his doctor and his eager admirer.

"well, that's all we need to be getting along now, Dr Watson and I will bid you good day."

"i-hang on, we were halfway through a conversation…"

Bad move, the officer clearly did not know when he was beaten. It took Sherlock all of half a second to deduce the sad, boring and yet utterly irritating presence of this man.

"tell me, where you looking for older men for anonymous sex before your wife had your baby or is this a recent development? You're right-handed yet the marker pen on your left hand indicates a toddler at home, just learning to draw, that and the mark of baby sick on your shirt, it's been washed but still there faintly. Your wife still tries to get your attention that much is clear by the lipstick mark on your cheek but you've long stopped reciprocating. Two identical bulges in your pockets means two identical phones, one for your respectable life, the other for when you cruise gay bars looking for father figures to take home, you can see that from your knuckles. Now, Dr Watson, _if you wouldn't mind" _

With nothing more than a sarcastic grin at the stunned officer, Sherlock swirled out, coat billowing behind him, with the stockier John following just behind.

The irrationality of jealously was choking to Sherlock, he did NOT like seeing someone else eye up his doctor and practically drool all over his. John was his, to drool, eye up, strip down….

They were nearly out of the building where the murder took place, security office at the natural history museum. Even though they were in a shut down tourist attraction, Sherlock decided he did not have the patience to wait until they got back home.

With a sudden 180 turn, Sherlock turned on the doctor, who sudden looked terrified and not a bit pissed off. Perfect.

"John. Inside that office. Now."

Before he had a chance to speak, two pale, large hands where on his collar and hair, and Watson found himself propelled into the darkened office. Sherlock locked the door, and when he turned to face his blogger, he looked downright intimidating.

"Good. Now, I want to remind you…. Exactly. Who. You. Belong. To." Each word was punctuated with a step, until he was less than an inch away from the Doctor.

The tension crackled. Watson swallowed nervous. Sherlock grinned. _Perfect. _


End file.
